


The Usual Fee, Plus Expenses

by glorious_spoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Supernatural Summergen Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A haunted hotel, a family mystery: business as usual for the Winchester brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Usual Fee, Plus Expenses

"Seriously?" Dean says. "That is the dumbest idea I've ever heard in my life."  
  
"Let me just talk to my partner," Sam says pleasantly into the phone, and disconnects the call. "Man, what's with you?"  
  
"What's with me? You mean  _besides_  the fact that not only did some freaking hotel manager from Bumfuck, Iowa manage to get your phone number, not only does he want us to drive halfway across the country to take care of his ghost problem, but he doesn't even want us to get rid of the damn thing? Besides that?"  
  
"Yeah, besides that."  
  
Dean makes a loud, irritated noise. He has one eye swollen shut, two broken fingers, and a concussion, courtesy of the poltergeist that threw him out a second-story window two towns back. All of this means that he's riding shotgun while Sam drives, which is never a good place to start with Dean. Even if Sam has, in deference to his injured state, been letting him pick the music. "Did you even bother telling Mr. Atherton Newcomb III that we're in the business of ganking spooks, not setting up playpens for them?"  
  
The fact that the guy is named Atherton is probably a bigger strike against him in Dean's book than everything else put together. "Dean, come on. The least we can do is hear the guy out."  
  
"We need to drive eight hundred miles to hear the guy out?"  
  
"They'll give us room and board for free, and we're heading in that direction anyway."  
  
"We cleaned out that last bar," Dean says irritably. "Not like we're hurting for money, for a change."  
  
"Dude, five star hotel. Jacuzzi. Steam shower. Come on."  
  
"Anybody calls me your boyfriend this time, I'm punching them in the face," Dean grumbles, but Sam knows he's won. "Fine. Let's do this thing, Daphne."  
  
Sam grins as he takes the exit onto I-80. "If I'm Daphne, you're Scooby."  
  
"No, man, I'm Fred."  
  
"You're not preppy enough to be Fred."  
  
"Whatever," Dean says, putting his head back and pointedly closing his good eye. "I'd rather be the dog anyway."  
  
It only takes about twenty miles for his snit to turn into snores and the weird almost-coherent mumbling that Dean always does when he's dreaming. Halfway across Wyoming, Sam switches out  _Razor's Edge_  for The Killers, and Dean doesn't even stir.

***

The hotel lobby is huge, gleaming, and spotless. There's a fountain in the center of the room under a domed skylight; the bellhops are wearing crisp white shirts and neatly pressed vests and the woman behind the front desk is watching him and Dean with an expression of deep suspicion that's mirrored almost perfectly on Dean's face.  
  
Sam gives her his most disarming smile and shifts closer to his brother, who's clutching the strap of his battered duffel and glaring at the fountain like it's about to attack him. "Hey. Relax."  
  
"Relax? You relax, Sammy," Dean hisses out of the side of his mouth. "Look at this freaking place."  
  
"It's a hotel."  
  
Dean opens his mouth again, but before he can speak, a plump, bespectacled man in an expensive suit comes bustling up to them. "Mr. Winchester? I beg your pardon, but is one of you Mr. Sam Winchester?"  
  
"I'm Sam," Sam says, shifting his bag onto his shoulder and holding out his hand. "Mr. Newcomb?"  
  
"Oh, please," the man says warmly, taking Sam's hand in both of his. "Call me Atherton."  
  
Dean lets out a poorly suppressed snort and Sam kicks his foot, but Atherton Newcomb seems oblivious as he looks brightly between them. "And this must be--"  
  
"This is my brother, Dean," Sam interrupts. He's pretty sure Dean won't actually punch the hotel manager in the face, but not sure enough to risk it. "We work together."  
  
"Of course," says Atherton quickly. It's a good recovery.  
  
Not good enough for Dean, apparently, because he sticks his hand out with the same smile he used to use on concerned school nurses when they were little. The one that broadcasts _fuck you and the horse you rode in on_ at top volume. "Awesome place you have here,  _Atherton."_  
  
From the way Atherton's smile goes a little pinched around the edges, the handshake is probably about ten degrees firmer than it needs to be, and Sam sighs.  
  
Trust Dean to make this difficult.

***

"This is our little Lucinda," Atherton says, sliding a photograph across the hoghly-polished surface of his desk. It's old--1910 at the latest and maybe even older than that--a solemn-faced girl in a lacy dress, white stockings, and black buckled shoes. There's a bow perched on her hair and a large doll cradled in the crook of her arm. "She's been the local ghost story for almost a hundred years." He shakes his head. "It was just a  _story._  But after what happened last month--well, I saw her myself. And when I researched the topic, your name was the one that came up. It wasn't easy to get in touch with you."  
  
Dean makes a low, irritated noise in the back of his throat, but Atherton doesn't seem to hear it. Sam leans forward.   
  
"Mr. Newcomb--Atherton--how did Lucinda die?"  
  
"Tuberculosis, I believe," says Atherton. "Consumption, as they called it in those days."  
  
Without asking, Dean plucks the photo out of Sam's hands and squints at it. His eye isn't swollen shut anymore, but the bruising is still pretty bad, maybe enough to make his vision blurry. "Didn't realize this place was that old," he says thoughtfully. Just like always once they're actually on a case, the combative note in his voice has faded almost completely.  
  
"We've done a fair bit of remodeling," Atherton admits. "In fact, Rosa seems to think that might be exactly what prompted these recent--events."  
  
"Rosa?"  
  
"Our head housekeeper." Behind his desk, Atherton folds his hands neatly. "She's been with us since the seventies."  
  
"Hm," says Dean thoughtfully. "Hey, you mind if we hang onto this?"  
  
"The photograph?" Dean's too busy staring at the picture, brow furrowed, to notice, but Sam can see the hesitation, the way Atherton's plump hands twitch like he wants to snatch it back, and he files it away to think about sometime when his mind isn't fuzzy from five hours on the road with Dean's snoring to keep him company.   
  
"We'll be very careful with it," he interjects in his most soothing voice.  
  
"Yes, well--" and then the little man deflates visibly. "Yes, of course. Anything we can do to help."  
  
"Right now, what you can do to help is point us in the direction of our room," Dean says, shoving the picture into the pocket of his jeans. Atherton winces again, but Dean is either oblivious or ignoring him. It could go either way.  
  
"Of course," Atherton says, pushing his chair out and getting to his feet. "Right this way."

***

"I gotta admit, Sammy, you might have a point about these classy hotels. I mean, the place looks like they'd chase you around with a can of Lysol if you so much as passed gas, but--" Dean pauses in the middle of drying off his hair, snaps the towel at Sam. "Hey. Geekboy."  
  
Without looking up from his laptop, Sam catches the end of the towel and jerks it out of Dean's hands. "Feeling better, I take it."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean shrug. "Steam shower, dude. Hey, does this place have a minibar or something? Don't all fancy places like this have minibars?"  
  
"How the hell should I know?" Sam asks irritably.  
  
"This yuppie lifestyle is your gig," Dean says. Then, "Hey, look, the welcoming committee left us a goodie basket. Awesome."  
  
Sam bookmarks the page he's on and looks up with a sigh. At the other end of the palatial suite, Dean is standing at the kitchen counter, rummaging through a giant basket of designer junk food. When he turns around, it's with a half-wrapped chocolate bar hanging out of his mouth.  
  
"Are you done?" Sam says.  
  
"Want one?" Dean says around a mouthful of chocolate.  
  
"You think you could focus for five minutes?"  
  
"Okay, okay." Dean hops onto the counter, crossing his feet at the ankles. His boxers have little red hearts all over them. Sam doesn't know--or particularly want to know--where they came from. "Hit me."  
  
"Lucinda DuPonte, daughter of the guy who built the place. Born 1899, died in January of 1910. Consumption, as far as I can find out. Looks like she's been the friendly neighborhood ghost for most of a century, and then--"  
  
"That whole thing cracks me up," Dean says thoughtfully. "I mean, who the hell decides that  _hey, you know what would make a good pet? That unquiet spirit wandering around my hotel._  Freaking geniuses."  
  
"Yeah. Well, she was good for business, right up until--"  
  
"--Erwin Wilcomb--love the names, by the way--takes a header off the second-story banister last month. Any other attacks?"  
  
"So far, it looks like it's just him."  
  
Dean snorts.  
  
"We can check it out," Sam says.  
  
"Fine," Dean sighs. Then, "We should talk to the housekeeper, what's-her-name--?"  
  
"Rosa."  
  
"Exactly. Anybody knows anything, it's gonna be her, not that jackass in the office downstairs."  
  
"You don't have to be mean," Sam says, but it's true.

***

Rosa Martinez looks like any one of the dozens of chambermaids that practically raised him and Dean, back in the day: broad, handsome face, sturdy hips and iron-gray hair, no-nonsense attitude. Her office is in the back of the hotel, next to the laundry, and it smells like detergent and dryer sheets.  
  
"You're not supposed to be back here," she says, pouring coffee into two fragile white cups and handing one to each of them. Her accent is faint, just enough to sharpen the edges of her consonants: Puerto Rican, Sam thinks.   
  
"Thanks," he says with his best smile, and she makes a dismissive noise, pours herself a cup, and sits down.  
  
"Sit," she says in a tone that brooks no argument, and they do. "You're here for a ghost story."  
  
"Uh," Dean says. "We're very interested--"  
  
"Don't bullshit me," she says primly. "You are here for a ghost story."  
  
Sam sips his coffee. It's strong and smooth, and he can practically feel the caffeine humming down his nerve endings. The thin porcelain bleeds heat through into the pads of his fingers and palms. "What can you tell us?"  
  
"What do you want to know?"  
  
"What do you know?" Dean asks, a little challengingly. His coffee is sitting on the table next to him, forgotten, and he's picking absently at the splint on his fingers. "Old Ath there thinks the place is haunted. How about you?"  
  
Rosa snorts, clearly unimpressed. "Atherton is a nice man, but he's not very smart. My girls and I have known about the ghost for years. You're here to get rid of it?"  
  
"Well--" Sam says.  
  
"Yes," Dean interrupts. "Yes, we are."  
  
"Good." She smiles sedately. "Drink your coffee. I'll tell you what I know."  
  
She waits until Dean picks up his cup and takes an obedient sip before she speaks again. "The first thing you need to know is that the  _hijueputa_  who fell down the stairs wasn't the first one."  
  
Dean chokes on his coffee. "What?"  
  
"It's been playing little jokes for years, but nobody cares when some brown girl off the boat falls down the stairs. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she had grease on her shoes, you know?"  
  
"How many?" Sam asks slowly.  
  
Rosa shrugs. "Fifteen, twenty since I been here. Maybe more. Those are just the ones who got hurt bad enough to need a hospital. I tell my girls to take care around those rooms, but sometimes they forget. Sometimes it gets nasty anyway." She empties her cup and sets it neatly aside on the saucer that's arranged next to a stack of room status sheets. The woman's desk is immaculate, almost to the point of OCD. Housekeepers are funny that way, in Sam's experience. "It has a temper."  
  
"Atherton said you thought the remodeling had something to do with it."  
  
"It did. That was when they opened up the family rooms to guests." She pours herself another cup of coffee. "It didn't like that one bit."  
  
Dean sets his mostly-full cup down--on its saucer, after she narrows her eyes at him. That kind of thing always makes Sam want to laugh. Dean's got all the manners of an unusually foul-mouthed thirteen-year-old boy most of the time, but he shapes right up if you know how to handle him. Sam's never really figured out the knack, but Jim had it, and Ellen.  
  
So did Dad, but he's not thinking about that now.  
  
"You wouldn't happen to be able to tell us where those rooms might be," Dean is saying, and Sam shakes off his sudden melancholy to listen.

***

"Have I mentioned lately how much I hate old hotels?" Dean grumbles, kicking a cardboard box out of his way in a puff of dust. It's late, well after midnight, and the only illumination comes from the twin beams of their flashlights. Fortunately, the suite isn't occupied. Sam isn't above manufacturing an emergency to get rid of an inconvenient bystander, but it's simpler when they don't have to.  
  
"Yeah, you have," he says back. "Focus."  
  
"I hate old hotels," Dean repeats. "Freaking dust everywhere."  
  
That's true enough. To be fair, they're in the closed-off hallway that used to be a servant's passage behind the suite of rooms where the DuPontes used to live, but even taking that into account, there's a ridiculous amount of dust coating every available surface. "At least there aren't rats?" Sam offers.  
  
It's too dark for him to see Dean's expression, but he doesn't really need to. "Screw you, Sammy."  
  
"I'm just trying to be--"  
  
"Dude, shut up."  
  
"Dean, come on--"  
  
"Seriously," Dean says, and he sounds suddenly focused instead of irritated. "Shut up."  
  
Sam shuts up.  
  
When he does, he can hear what Dean's listening to: if you're not paying attention, it sounds like the kind of harmless creaky noises any old building makes in the middle of the night (and he's been in a lot of them, he knows). If you are paying attention, it sounds like footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps, and there's the smell of ozone in the air.  
  
"Showtime," Dean murmurs.  
  
Their flashlights begin to sputter as the air turns cold, and Sam thumbs his off before it can wreck the battery. When he looks up again, the ghost is standing a few feet away, watching them.   
  
She looks exactly the same as she did in the faded photograph Atherton gave them, a solemn-eyed wisp of a child all in white; there's blood trickling down from an ugly wound on her temple.  
  
Sam shifts his stance, bracing himself. Ghosts are unpredictable, and children even more so. "Lucinda DuPonte?"  
  
Her hollow eyes shift, catch on something over his shoulder.  _"Who's there?"_  she murmurs.  
  
Behind him, Dean spits out a startled curse, but as Sam starts to turn there's a horrible, twisting ache in his chest and throat, and the world goes black around him.

***

He wakes up, blinking, to a bright light in his eyes and Dean's hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Morning, Princess," Dean says lightly, but when his face swims into focus, his eyes are worried. "How's the head?'  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"I saved your pansy ass, that's what happened." Dean sits back on his heels, and that's when Sam realizes that he's flat on his back on the uneven boards, dust clogging his nose. It smells off somehow, sweet-rot and thick enough to choke him; he sneezes three times in quick succession.  
  
"Seriously, what happened?" he asks again, rubbing his streaming eyes.  
  
Dean sighs. "We got a problem. I think we've been chasing the wrong ghost. It wasn't the little girl. She disappeared, but you didn't start breathing again until I dragged you out of there."  
  
"Did you see who it was?"  
  
"No," Dean says darkly, "but I can guess."

***

It turns out that Atherton Newcomb lives in a private suite of rooms on the ground floor of the hotel. Sam learns this when Dean leaves him in their room to sift through the local history websites and turns up ten minutes later gripping a distinctly flustered-looking Atherton by the nape of the neck with his good hand. He frog-marches the man into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.  
  
"Mr. Winchester," Atherton says. He's twisting his hands together nervously, like he's not entirely sure if they're going to let him out of this room in one piece. His pajamas have blue and white stripes and there's a pair of bifocals perched on his nose; he looks like a perfect cliche.  
  
"Atherton, buddy," Dean says, giving him a heavy pat on the back before stepping away. "You haven't been totally honest with us, have you?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Atherton says, fast enough that Sam knows he's lying.  
  
Dean pulls the photo of Lucinda out of his pocket and shoves it under Atherton's nose. It's looking somewhat worse for the wear. "Pretty girl. How'd she die?"  
  
"It was--"  
  
"--and don't say consumption. Unless consumption is another word for  _bashed in the head."_  
  
"I don't--"  
  
"We saw her," Sam interrupts gently. He spins the laptop so that the screen is facing them. "And there's this. Lucinda had a private funeral. It was kept very quiet, and the family put about the idea that she'd been sick. Her mother died a week later, and her father re-married a month after that."  
  
"Now, I think that sounds suspicious," Dean interjects. "But maybe that's just me."  
  
Atherton sighs, looking oddly deflated. "It's a delicate situation."  
  
"The kid's been dead for a century," Dean says. "I don't think there's anybody left to scandalize."  
  
"It was--" Atherton sighs again, runs his fingers through his sparse, disheveled hair. "It's complicated."  
  
"Take a seat," Sam says, indicating the plush armchair by the door. "Just start from the beginning, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, and try to be a little less full of shit this time around," Dean mutters, but he shuts up when Sam cuts him a look.   
  
Atherton perches himself neatly on the edge of the seat cushion, looking for all the world as though he wishes he had the courage to make a break for it. Dean's still between him and the door, though, so he just tugs the wrinkles out of his nightshirt and says, "Local legend goes that Lucinda was murdered by her father, and that her mother killed herself out of grief."  
  
"Oh, and you didn't see any reason to tell us that earlier?" Dean says.  
  
"Dean, shut up. Atherton, go ahead."  
  
"That's the  _legend,"_  Atherton says primly. "There was never any evidence to suggest that it was anything other than prurient fairy-tales. Especially when old Laurence DuPonte remarried so quickly--well, people were bound to talk." He looks back and forth between them, anxious. "The most reasonable explanation was that little Lucinda took ill, and that her mother was struck down by the same illness."  
  
"Nobody ever investigated," Sam says. It's not a question.  
  
Atherton sniffs. "I should think not. He was a prominent member of the community."  
  
"Sounds like a real stand-up guy," Dean says. "You wouldn't happen to have any idea where these  _supposed_  murders happened, now would you?"  
  
"The  _story_ goes that Lucinda was pushed down the stairs."  
  
Dean purses his lips, thoughtful. "That would explain the head injury. And the accidents."  
  
"I don't know about Charlotte DuPonte. Just that she was supposedly overcome by grief over the death of her only child."  
  
"I'm sure. We were back in the old servant's hall when that freak attacked you, Sammy. Any thoughts?"  
  
"Well, neither of us actually saw him." Sam rubs his throat. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but he can feel the phantom ache of-- "If I had to guess, I'd say she was strangled. That's what it felt like."  
  
"Well, that's a start. You think--"  
  
"What were you two doing in that corridor?" Atherton asks. "And how did you get in? I have the only key."  
  
Dean beams at him, all cheerful insincerity. "Keys are so overrated."  
  
"You  _broke in?"_  
  
"Dude, you called us. What the hell did you think we were going to do?"  
  
"It's all part of the investigative process," Sam says soothingly.  
  
"I thought--" Atherton fiddles with the hem of his nightshirt, nervous. "I thought candles--a ritual--"  
  
"Uh huh." Dean smirks. "Well, this is the real deal, buddy. You happen to know where the DuPontes were buried?"  
  
"There's a private cemetery past the woods on the grounds," Atherton says slowly. "Why?"  
  
Dean opens his mouth again, and Sam cuts him off before he can traumatize the poor guy any further. "You're better off not knowing. Thank you. You've been very helpful."  
  
The little man nods, shakily. "Yes, I--may I go now?"  
  
Sam glares at Dean, and Dean rolls his eyes, opens the door, and steps aside. Atherton practically bolts from the room.

***

"Did you have to terrorize the man?" Sam asks.  
  
Dean slams the trunk of the Impala shut and stares at him across the roof with an incredulous scowl. "He lied to us, man. He almost got you killed. Far as I'm concerned, the smug prick had it coming. And it's not like I actually  _did_  anything to him."  
  
"God, you're such a jerk. I don't know why I even put up with you."  
  
"Somebody needs to watch your back." Dean tosses the shovel at him, and he catches it reflexively. "You can dig. I'm injured." He waggles his splinted fingers as proof.  
  
"Injured, my ass," Sam mutters. "Do we really need to dig all three of them up?"  
  
"Better safe than sorry." Dean grins. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."  
  
"We could leave Lucinda. Atherton wanted her to stick around anyway, and if it turns out she wasn't the one hurting anybody--"  
  
"All three, Sammy," Dean says implacably.  
  
Sam sighs. "Fine."

***

There are parts of the job Sam hates more than digging up old graves, but at the moment he can't think of any. The dirt is packed to sod, cris-crossed with the roots of moderately sized trees, and his arms are trembling with exhaustion. It's almost dawn. "I hate you," he pants.  
  
"Keep telling yourself that," Dean says absently. He's sitting on the edge of the third--and smallest--grave, feet kicking in midair, shotgun resting across his lap. He looks like an overgrown twelve-year-old.  
  
"Seriously," Sam says. His shovel hits something solid, then skitters across the surface. "Oh, God,  _finally."_  
  
"Took you long enough," Dean says, climbing to his feet.  
  
"Asshole," Sam mutters, clearing away another layer of dirt. The one good thing about old graves is the fact that the coffins are a lot easier to get into that the fancy modern variety, and the corpses are dessicated enough to not stink. Still, he has to wince a little when he pries away the lid to see a tiny skeleton in a stained and tattered white dress, a few wisps of dark hair still clinging to her skull. He looks away, glances up; Dean isn't visible from here, but Sam can hear him rummaging through his duffel bag for the lighter fluid. "Dean, would you--"  
  
"Oh,  _fuck,"_  Dean says suddenly.  
  
"What--" Sam starts, then Dean's shotgun blast echoes through the woods, rendering explanations unnecessary.  
  
He scrambles out of the grave just in time to see Dean go flying across the clearing to land--hard--against a crumbling headstone. Standing beside the open graves, back to Sam, is--  
  
\--not the father. It's a tall woman in a fancy gown, dark hair pinned up in some sort of elaborate twist.  
  
Dean groans, shakes his head like he's trying to clear water from his ears. "Son of a  _bitch."_  
  
Sam takes a step forward, and the woman's head turns sharply. It's not like he didn't already have a pretty good idea of who she was, but seeing her face confirms it. There was a picture of her on the local historical society website. Charlotte DuPonte. Laurence DuPonte's first wife; Lucinda's mother.  
  
A thick ring of bruises circles her neck, and her eyes are buring with mad fury, but she lifts her skirts delicately to step over a fallen log toward him. Ladylike. Somehow that's even creepier.  _"You,"_  she hisses.  _"Stay away from my family."_  
  
Sam backs up carefully, avoiding the edge of the open graves, maneuvering toward Dean's bag on the ground. It's gonna be nearly impossible to torch all three of them at once, but it looks like this is the one he has to worry about after all.  
  
By the gravestone, Dean is struggling to his feet. "Hey," he calls. "Hey, lady, look, I don't know what you think we did, but--"  
  
Without even looking, she flicks a hand at Dean, and his head slams back against the stone hard enough to make Sam wince. He sags, head lolling.   
  
Charlotte is still staring at Sam.  
  
 _"They're mine. They're my family, and that little tramp won't ever have them. I won't let that happen. I won't."_  
  
"Uh," Sam says, sidestepping again as she paces closer. He's on the other side of Laurence's grave now, almost within grabbing distance of the duffel bag. They already salted the body; he just needs the lighter fluid. Now as long as neither of the other two show up--  
  
 _"She's my daughter,"_  Charlotte whispers.  _"He thought he could just take her and go marry that woman, but she's_  mine.  _"I made sure he couldn't have her."_  
  
"You--what?" Sam crouches slowly, reaching for the duffel bag without taking his eyes off her. There's an unpleasant tickle in the back of his throat, not quite the full-blown agony of before, but not far off. He needs to move fast.  
  
 _"I made sure,"_  she says again, moving closer still. The tickle is growing steadily more unpleasant, and even though she hasn't made any attempt to throw him against any headstones, he's pretty sure it's just because she has something else in mind for him.  
  
His fingers find the cool, smooth edges of the lighter fluid can, and he stumbles back as his throat closes painfully. His foot catches on the edge of Laurence's grave and he goes down hard, too busy struggling to breathe to break his fall.  
  
Charlotte is standing over him, picking up her skirts again to keep them over the dirt as she leans down.  _"Don't worry,"_  she croons.  _"It'll all be over soon. It'll be all better soon."_  
  
Sam yanks the cap off of the lighter fluid, and even with the twisting airlessness in his lungs he can smell the sharp tang of butane. It's three feet to Charlotte's grave. Two. His fingers find the edge and he hauls himself forward again, darkness clouding the edges of his vision.  
  
He doesn't even bother to properly douse the body, just tilts the open container in. There's a Zippo in his pocket and he fumbles it out as icy fingers brush the hair back from his forehead. He lights it and tosses it into the open grave, the flame a streak of light burning across his field of vision before everything goes black again.

***

It can't be more than a couple of moments longer when he blinks, gasping and shuddering back into awareness. Charlotte is gone, and he's laying flat on his belly, close enough to her grave that he can feel the heat of the flames.  
  
He rolls over with a groan, pushes himself up to a sitting position. Dean is on his feet, stumbling across the clearing with a zig-zagging gait that's enough to tell Sam that he's probably got a brand new concussion to go with his bruises. He peers at Sam in the flickering light of the fire. "You okay?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam says, and Dean peers into the buring grave.  
  
"Fucking  _bitch,"_  he says.  
  
Sam rubs his throat. He can't really disagree. "We should--" he gestures vaguely at the other two graves.  
  
"Yeah," Dean mutters.   
  
While he's retrieving the spare bottle of lighter fluid and dousing the bodies liberally with it, Sam peers at the grave on the other side of Laurence DuPonte's. He didn't pay it much attention earlier, but now he can see the name. Mary DuPonte. The second wife.  
  
"What I don't get," Dean says, dropping a match into Lucinda's grave, "is why  _I'm_  always the one who gets tossed around and bashed in the head."  
  
"She tried to choke me," Sam offers, zipping up the bag and shouldering it.  
  
Dean doesn't look mollified. "This job blows," he says, handing the shovel over and holstering his shotgun. There's blood trickling out of his hair, but when Sam shines the flashlight in his face, his eyes dilate properly. "Hey! Next time, warn a guy."  
  
Sam grins. "I think you'll live. Come on, let's get you back to the hotel."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, Florence Nightingdale," Dean grumbles, but he doesn't complain when Sam offers a shoulder to keep him from stumbling. 

***

Sam locks the door and drops the deadbolt, just in case. There's a privacy sign on the knob, but that won't necessarily keep Atherton out. The hotel manager seems to have had a change of heart after they showed up yesterday morning bruised and bloody and covered in dirt; Sam just barely managed to escape his refrain of apologies.  
  
"We got the room for as long as we want," he says.  
  
Dean's sprawled on the bed with a glossy magazine and a bottle of beer. "Awesome. They gonna keep feeding us, too?"  
  
"You shouldn't be drinking," Sam tells him.  
  
"Fuck off," Dean says absently, taking a pull from his bottle. "Found something you might be interested in."  
  
"Busty Asian Beauties has a new centerfold?"  
  
"You don't have the good taste to appreciate that," Dean says archly. "Something else, I mean. About the ghosts we just ganked. Ring a bell?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "I actually talked to Atherton about that. He's a lot more forthcoming now. Looks like Laurence DuPonte was having an affair with one of the maids--Mary Sullivan. It was a big scandal."  
  
"Yeah, a  _hundred years ago."_  Dean sits up, tossing the magazine aside. "Why the hell would anybody care now?"  
  
"That's what I'm trying to tell you." Sam plops onto the other bed. The comforter is silky-smooth under his fingers, and he's still getting used to a hotel room that smells like air-freshener and clean linen instead of burnt coffee and questionable bodily fluids. He hasn't stayed in a place this nice since he was with Jess. He wouldn't be all that surprised if Dean never has. "He had three kids with her after his first wife died. The hotel's been in the same family for the past century."  
  
"So Atherton--"  
  
"--is descended from the DuPontes, yeah. He was trying to protect the family name." Sam flops back onto the pile of soft pillows against the headboard, closing his eyes. "What did you find?"  
  
Something soft hits him in the chest, and he blinks. It's a rope. A noose, moth-eaten and stiff with age.  
  
"Found that in the back hallway," Dean says. "You want my best guess, Mommy Dearest shoved the kid down the stairs, then hanged herself. Freaking soap-opera, man."  
  
"Yeah," Sam says quietly.  
  
Dean jogs his shoulder gently. "Hey," he says. "He pissed that we got rid of Casper?"  
  
"Casper's a boy," Sam says automatically.  
  
"Thank you, Captain Obvious."  
  
He has to smile a little at Dean's exasperated tone. "I think he'll get over it."  
  
"And we got the room for as long as we want?"  
  
"Yeah." Sam can feel his smile getting wider. "I know how you feel about these fancy hotels, though. We can head out now if you want, find something a little more comfortable. I saw a place down the road that looks like it probably has a healthy cockroach population."  
  
"You're such a freaking comedian," Dean grumbles, sitting back down on his bed and reaching for his beer.   
  
Sam laughs, closing his eyes again. "I know."


End file.
